Every drop of ink I use-
Is like a drop of blood…
A bit of essence of myself-
A seeming, endless flood.
Revealing secrets unconfessed-
Obligations yet unmet…
A glimpse into my inner parts…
Some don't care, and most forget.
A glimpse of what I might have been-
And many things I never was..
And yet I write, and write again..
Oh, tell me.. is there not a cause?
A cause! Why yes! To carve our names
Like children do on restroom walls-
Desiring but to leave a trace…
In life… before the Shadow calls.
Yet I am less, the more I write…
With loss of essence, we all shrink…
As blood from wrists, which have been slashed
We die with every drop of ink.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem